


Nosebleed

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood Kink, Drug Addiction, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: The one where Tyler gets high in a gas station bathroom and Josh has a pretty mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: [gasstationbathroomsiswhereiletyouin](https://instagram.com/p/BOEWRdChOIs/)
> 
> translation into русский available: [nosebleed](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5067707) by [Блэкаут](https://ficbook.net/authors/820429)

"I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person." A mantra, a catchphrase, those four words don't classify as intrusive anymore. They're so familiar he can hear it in anybody's voice, scolding him, patronizing him. He can hear his mom. He can hear his friends. He can even hear it from the cashier at the front counter, bored out of their mind as they wait for their shift to end.

He asked if he needed to buy anything in order to use the restroom, since the last store he went into told him this, but the person behind the register popped their gum and told him he was okay. "As long as you don't make a mess."

A mess isn't on his schedule. He's fidgeting and manic and talking to his reflection as he grips the edges of the sink. "I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person."

His phone vibrates in his pocket, a text from Mark, no doubt, urging him to finish pissing. _Tyler, hurry up_ , it says. _It's fucking freezing_. Mark's in his car with the heat on, while Tyler is shivering in the bathroom. Tyler's working his hands into his coat pockets, diving in deep to feel gloves and the keys underneath them. Tyler feels spare change, too, and plastic baggies. He stares at his reflection and realizes the overhead light makes him look ghastly.

Mark and Tyler are driving someplace far away, someplace Tyler knows he should know, but he doesn't care enough to know for sure. If Tyler were Mark, he would have accompanied himself to the restroom and kept a watchful eye. Mark and Tyler are driving someplace to get Tyler help, but Tyler is engaging in self-sabotage. The plastic baggies in his pockets are small, fine white powder within them. Mark would be ashamed. Mark is in his car, warm, and Tyler is shivering.

The line he draws is short, as he bunches the powder on the length of his thumb pad. Mark would call it a line, would go as far as to assume Tyler would have crouched over the edge of a sink and straightened it out until he was satisfied with the length. While Tyler is fine with people assuming it's a line—he would rather assume they think it's a line—the technical term is _bump_. Tyler isn't trying to get high. He's trying to maintain his high. Mark is blind. The cashier at the past gas station knew Tyler was high, and that's why they sent him away with the shitty excuse of needing to buy something in order to use the restroom.

"Dude," Mark said, when Tyler returned. "You could have grabbed some Oreos or potato chips."

"Doesn't matter," Tyler replied, and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Drive to the next one."

This cashier is young, maybe eighteen, and they're bored. They don't see the way Tyler's shaking, the way his eyes are lined with pink. Or maybe they do see all of that. Maybe they know, and maybe they're just letting Tyler know ahead of time to clean up any blood that might make an appearance. Maybe they know Tyler was trying to get high, that his friend was parked outside, that Tyler was going to just go to the next stop to get what he wanted. This is safer. Drug addiction is an illness.

"I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person. I'm a bad person." Tyler watches the blood drip down his right nostril like a long strand of snot. He's holding onto the edges of the lone sink, knuckles white, thinking about how lovely a picture of himself would be right now, with his under-eye circles and dark coat and mustard-yellow hoodie.

He laughs, moving quickly, and the automated paper towel dispenser shoots out a sheet. Tyler leaves it be.

Upon entering, Tyler noticed how the stall door was shut, albeit a tad ajar, so he assumed someone had given it a violent slam after their bowel movement passed, but now he knows the door's broken, and he isn't alone in this gas station bathroom.

A man steps out, toilet flushing behind him. There's a beanie pulled over his head asymmetrically, an ear exposed to the elements. He's dressed in warm clothes, that much is clear. Comfortable, open to conversation with strangers in a public restroom, he says, "Hi," and gives a kind smile. He doesn't seem to mind Tyler's bleeding nose, his death grip, or his mumbling.

Tyler says, "Hello," and returns to his reflection. He knows he should give up the sink so the guy can wash his hands, but Tyler is connected to it as if it were an extra limb, a lifeline. Tyler can hear his pulse.

"You got a little—"

Tyler sniffs and runs the back of his hand through the blood. It spreads, stains, and before the guy can say anything else, Tyler licks the drying specks from his hand. He sucks here and there to get his skin completely clean.

Meanwhile, the guy says, "Whoa," and then, "You okay?"

Tyler stares at the guy, shivering still, the bridge of his nose feeling funny. "M'fine." The guy is quiet. He stands there in his boots and camouflage pants, and Tyler's intrusive thoughts are escaping with no filter. "You've a pretty mouth."

"You have pretty eyes," the guy retorts, no venom, just a soft voice. His hands are in his pockets, casually standing with a drug addict, in a gas station bathroom.

They don't kiss. The man wants to, though—he's leaning forward, but Tyler presses his hands to the guy's chest and pushes. It's weak, and it gets the point across. "No," Tyler says, in a whisper, like a secret. "Get on your knees."

Tyler falls against the wall behind him, leaning with legs spread out and knees locked. The guy's on his knees as soon as he gathers his surroundings and deems them acceptable. Tyler rolls his eyes at that, and the guy sees and says, "Never done this before."

"What, sucked a dick or sucked a dick in public?"

"The latter. I've sucked loads of dicks before." His eyes are playful, expectant. "My name's Josh."

"I don't care."

Josh unzips Tyler's jeans, tongue poking into the side of his cheek. There's no longer a look of _something more_ in those playful eyes of his. No, Josh knows Tyler's intentions, and by the way he pops open his lips at the reveal of bare skin, Josh is giving himself to Tyler in order for him to fulfill his intentions.

To further this point, Josh says, "Use me," and Tyler does. Tyler yanks off Josh's beanie, sticks it in his coat pocket, weaves his fingers through Josh's faded pink hair, and uses Josh.

No teeth, jaw lax, and eyes wide open, Josh is everything Tyler needs at this present moment. He keeps his hands on his thighs and watches Tyler as Tyler works his cock in and out of Josh's mouth. Even when Tyler pushes Josh down, nose flush against his pubic hair, Josh doesn't make a sound, doesn't protest, and doesn't gag. Despite the good-boy vibe, Josh is filthy, able to breathe through his nose and relax his throat by sheer will alone. There's drool on his lips, shiny, and it runs down his chin and lands in sloppy glops on the flooring between his legs.

Tyler is unforgiving. He's pushing the head of his cock past Josh's molars and keeping the twitching bit to the back of Josh's throat. And Josh just stares at him. It's wet around the edges of his eyes, and there's pink in his cheeks. Tyler twists his wrist in Josh's hair and pulls him, drawing his head from groin and cock. Josh gasps at this, more saliva and now pre-come spilling from his red, red lips. "Shit," he sighs, and touches Tyler's dick, his fingers damp, wrap, wrap, wrapping and tug, tug, tugging. "Yeah?" His voice is hoarse.

"Suck my balls."

Josh does. He leans in, takes the left one in, and then gives the right one the same treatment.

Tyler is fuzzy, warm. "Both of them. Same time."

Josh does this, too, and he won't stop staring at Tyler. Tyler hates it. He wants to smack, wants to hit, wants to bite, wants to fucking cry. He says, "I'm going to slide my dick down your throat again."

A warning is good. A warning is considerate. Josh gives a final kiss to Tyler's testicles before he sits back on his heels, pretty mouth open, pink tongue out, eyes wide, and a hint of a smile on his face. Josh wants this. He wants to get off Tyler so damn bad that it makes Tyler's cock fucking leak. Josh links his arms around his knees and waits patiently—

"Like a good boy," Tyler says. "L-look at _you_."

Josh's mouth is heat, and Tyler knows heat. He knows nights where he's lain under blankets and tossed and turned until he sweated and shivered and called everybody in his contacts as he became delirious. He knows nights where he's lain atop the blankets and watched the fan circle and circle, too restless to sleep. Those nights ended in misery. Those nights ended in failure.

Tonight is already one of those nights. Mark picked him up, hopeful and happy, and Tyler blamed the cold weather and withdrawal on his red eyes. Tyler's eyes are wet and red. He feels fuzzy and warm, and he shivers, and he fucks Josh's mouth and doesn't let the thought of some poor person walking in faze him.

Josh is making noises now. He's drooling more, tears at the corners of his eyes. He's crying, smiling, too fucking prideful for his own good. Tyler clutches Josh's hair to keep him in place, but Josh holds Tyler's hips and takes back control. His head bobs, and his tongue laps at Tyler's glans, and Josh slowly shuts his eyes and hums, hums, hums.

Tyler wants to die. He's feverish and shivering, and Josh's mouth is warm, warm, warm, and Josh is cupping his testicles, thumbs stroking, circles, circles, and Tyler's entire being convulses as he comes, as he hisses, as his nose bleeds. Josh swallows it all, immobilized, lips tight around the tip of Tyler's cock. He won't let go. Tyler's face is wet with blood, perspiration, and now tears. "Leggo," he says. "I'm gonna fucking—"

Shaking his head, Josh looks up, dark eyes, wide eyes, and Tyler whimpers and allows his body to deflate, to relax, and Tyler watches Josh pop open his lips and let Tyler's piss flow down his chin. Disgust isn't on his face; nothing _bad_ is on his face. Josh is just staring at Tyler with the most concerned expression ever, and Tyler hates it. He sniffs, metallic in his throat. "Stop," he says, and fixes his jeans, stretches his hoodie, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. Much like the first time, Tyler laps up all the blood.

Josh stands on wobbling feet. Piss, semen, and saliva cling to his lips. He tugs on the paper towel hanging from the dispenser and cleans himself, standing in front of the sink as he does so. His reflection is more put together than Tyler's in the background. Even still, Tyler wants to take a picture and save this moment. Maybe he'll allow it to creep into his dreams, especially those where he would be under the influence. His head hurts to know the extent of the story behind the photo, what would have happened if they weren't strangers, if the guy in the mustard hoodie wasn't a junkie. Tyler wonders if he could get better, if they could move into a quiet apartment together and have a family with kids who never waver far from smiling, who have scraped knees, who never get sick, who are missing their front teeth.

Tyler wants to die for a second time tonight. He digs out the plastic baggie from his pocket and inhales another bump while Josh digs into his pockets and chews on a piece of spearmint gum.

"Here," Tyler says, pinching the bridge of his nose as he passes over Josh's beanie. Josh takes it, the paper towel dispenser beeping, Tyler leaning his head against the wall. He draws out his phone, a text from Mark, but Tyler ignores it. Josh chews on gum, his beanie back on his head in an asymmetrical fashion. "Hey," Tyler says, and he flips to the camera app. "Lemme—"

"Why?"

"We look sick."

Josh doesn't say Tyler's wrong. He stands, Tyler leans, and Tyler takes the picture.

There's a knock on the door. It's hesitant. It's Mark. "Tyler, are you in there? You haven't replied to my texts."

"Got sick," Tyler says, and he sounds sick, he feels sick, he is sick.

"Do you need help?"

"No. Just…" Tyler rubs his eyes. "I'll be out in a minute. Please leave me alone."

Footsteps, and now Tyler is shaking, shivering, and slithering his hand into his coat pocket, dropping phone and pulling out plastic. "I'm a bad person," he's mumbling, "I'm a bad person, I'm a bad person."

Another bump, Josh watches. Sobbing, Josh watches. Sinking to the floor, Josh watches.

Josh drops to his knees, though in a very different context this time. "You don't need to do that shit."

Tyler raises his hand. "You don't fucking know—"

"You're right. I don't." Josh takes Tyler's wrist.

"Don't touch me." Tyler rips away his hand, and Josh grabs it again. " _Don't touch me_ ," Tyler says, and he fights, and Josh gives up far too easily.

"Okay."

"Fuck you." Tyler pushes himself off the floor, Josh following.

"You need help, dude."

"Shut up. I-I-I'm on my way to, to, to getting help." Tyler wraps his arms around himself. "My friend, he's taking me somewhere."

Josh stares at Tyler. He continues to chew his gum. "Gimme the shit in your pockets."

Tyler doesn't know why he does, but he does. Josh flushes it all down the drain. Tyler cries.

"Why?" Josh says, and Tyler says, "I owe you fuck-all."

Josh says, "What's your name?"

Tyler says, "Tyler," and Josh says, "See ya later, Tyler." He kisses Tyler's forehead.

Mark is in his car. The heat is on, and the radio is turned to one of Tyler's favorite stations. Tyler sits in the passenger seat with his arms around his legs and his head on his knees.

"Are you okay?" Mark asks, turning to stare at Tyler. "You look—"

"I'm fine. Just drive." Tyler draws out his phone, fidgeting slightly, and squeezes.

Exiting the gas station, Josh walks toward his car, dressed warmly, hands in pockets and chewing spearmint, dark eyes lingering on Mark and Tyler. He's enthralled and debauched.

Tyler gazes at him. "You know what?" Tyler says. "I think I'm gonna get better. I'm not a—" _bad person, bad person, bad person._

"Tyler," Mark sighs, tired, so fucking tired, "your nose is bleeding."


End file.
